


Just Deserts

by oyhumbug



Series: Uncle Roy Series [2]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Family, Flash Fic, Friendship, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyhumbug/pseuds/oyhumbug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In response to FF#27: Is That Blood? - Roy learns the hard way to ignore scorned women. Their rage? Manageable. The real terror is a vengeful Felicity Smoak-Queen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Deserts

**Author's Note:**

> So, somehow I skipped Flash Fic Prompt #27. Shrugs. Don't ask me. Anyway, it's not skipped now. It worked perfectly for the previously mentioned sequel to Quirks. I hope this second piece lives up to its predecessor. (I had SO much fun writing this. Roy's mind is hilarious.) As always, thanks and enjoy!
> 
> ~Charlynn~

**Just Deserts  
An Olicity Flash Fic One Shot Sequel to _Quirks_**

 

**Flash Fic Prompt #27: Is That Blood?**

He knew.  
  
He _knew_ that this would happen.  
  
He told _them_ this would happen.  
  
But did anyone ever listen to him?  
  
Nope.  
  
Never.  
  
He was surrounded by imbeciles – the only sane one of the whole crazy, deranged, pea-brained bunch.  
  
In his anger, and his anxiety, and in all his amniotic fluid. Well, not _his_ obviously, because he was a dude, and dude's didn't... amnio. Whatever. Anyway, it was Felicity's amniotic fluid. Or her latest brat's. Same difference. The point – _his point_ – was that, in everything that Roy was feeling both emotionally and physically (because his boots – his precious, patrolling to kick serious bad-guy ass boots – were soaked with baby-juice), he needed to focus on how dumb Oliver, and Digg, and everyone else on the team who didn't pick up their phones were and _not_ remember that he willingly chose to make their dumb-asses his pseudo-family. Because admitting _that_ – admitting that he had no one else to blame for his wet boots, and his if not broken yet hand then give the hormonal, pregnant lady five more minutes, and his eyes – his poor, scarred for life because he was seeing things no kind-of-adopted brother should ever see in regards to his quasi-sister – would just be cruel and unusual punishment.  
  
So, Roy just completely blocked those hard to swallow truths... which wasn't difficult, considering his throat was raw from crying out in pain (No more training for Felicity. Ever.) and he was pretty sure this was his last day of freedom, because, the next time he saw Oliver Queen, he was a dead man... even if that meant he was widowing Felicity and leaving her to take care of four daughters – _FOUR!_ – on her own. But, then again, seeing as how it was all Oliver's fault that she had given birth four times in six years, Roy really didn't think she'd mind attending her husband's funeral at that point.  
  
“OW!,” he bellowed, the pain in his hand bringing him back to the moment and away from thoughts of the satisfaction he would feel watching funeral coverage of his _former_ mentor's burial from the common's room at Iron Heights. But Felicity was doing her 'He-He-Hoo' nonsense _and_ screaming – can't forget the eardrum splitting screaming, so Roy was fairly sure that she couldn't hear him cry out in pain. Even if she could hear him, she obviously didn't care, because she just squeezed tighter, and sunk her nails in deeper, and, wait, was she now trying to literally twist the skin of his fingers as well?  
  
_Fucking. Hell._  
  
“Seriously, Felicity! This is the _fourth_ time you've done this. It can't hurt _that_ bad,” Roy reasoned to himself. Sure, it was out loud, but, as he had already established, no one was paying him any attention whatsoever. He was just the punching bag. Perennially. In one way or another when it came to his so-called family... of selfish, asshole sharks. “I mean, nothing ever _really_ returns to normal... down there, right? So, it's practically a slip and slide. And we all know that the water is turned on, because my boots squeak every time I try to move.”  
  
Roy was chuckling to himself, imagining Little Baby Queen coming into the world, laughing and squealing with glee as she slid down a wet, yellow tarp. Slowly, however, he became aware of the fact that he was the only one laughing. In fact, the entire, private hospital room – the nurses and Felicity – were all frozen in time, watching in stunned silence. Their expressions ranged from shock, to abject horror, to serial killer slasher (Felicity), making Roy realize that maybe he hadn't been flying as under the radar as he had thought; maybe they had just been ignoring him, because he was a man in a labor and delivery room whining and complaining _that his hand hurt_.  
  
Because, yeah, suddenly he realized what a really bad – not to mention cliché – idea _that_ was, and that was before he referred to Felicity's... parts he _couldn't_ name let alone actually think about... as a toy.  
  
“Oh shit.”  
  
Using his hands to pull herself up, Felicity got in his face. Roy was pretty sure his fingers were nothing but pulverized bone dust at that point, but he didn't look away from her burning, irate eyes, and he sure as hell didn't complain. Not even a whimper. (Let it be said that, while it sometimes took him a few tries, and it always helped if the teacher was grading on a curve, Roy Harper _did_ eventually learn his lessons. Unlike Oliver.) “Roy,” Felicity warned him, threatened him, all in the guise of simply starting a _friendly_ conversation. When he swallowed, Roy was pretty sure that lump was not only his stomach, but also his liver, his gall bladder, and his spleen. “Do I really need to remind you why exactly you're here with me right now?”  
  
No, she really, really didn't. Because Roy, even in his physical agony, even in his mortification, even in his sincere regret over the callous things he had said in regards to the condition of Felicity's lady-bits had yet to forget his own blazing ire: fucking Oliver. And his fucking pride. And his fucking... well, fucking. And his fucking thick skull. And his fucking inability to listen to _anyone_ besides his wife. Because Roy had warned him. Hell, he had outright told him that going off to Central City to help Barry was a bad idea. A horrible, no good, very bad idea. Hell, he had _begged_ Oliver not to leave him alone in Starling with Felicity and a Turkey-Lurkey (Hey, look, four syllables!) that was ready to pop – _had been_ ready to pop for weeks now. But Felicity had dismissed Roy's concerns, saying that she felt great. And she'd know if she was going to go into labor, and, even if she did while Oliver and Digg (because he, too, did everything Felicity said) were out of town, Barry could run Oliver back in time. Except this was her _fourth!_ kid, and Felicity had never been one prone to long labors. Painful? Well, if the appendages formally known as Roy's hands were any indication, then hell yes. But not long. And Turkey Lurkey was no exception. (Of course not! Those Queen's would never even once think to give Roy a freaking break.)  
  
And the kicker?  
  
Well, _besides_ Baby Girl Queen Number Four.  
  
When Felicity _did_ go into labor (like Roy predicted), when Felicity's water broke (and what a misnomer that was) _all over_ Roy's boots (because that was fair to a self-declared life-long bachelor how exactly?), when Roy had to drive her screaming, swearing like a sailor, sweating ass to the hospital, Oliver 'I-Have-Low-Self-Esteem-And-An-Easily-Bruised-Ego-So-I-Boost-My-Self-Worth-And-Pride-By-CONSTANTLY-Knocking-Up-My-Very-Loud-And-Hormonal-And-Apparently-Fertile-Wife' Queen had his phone off.  
  
SO HE DIDN'T EVEN FUCKING KNOW THAT ROY WAS IN THE DELIVERY ROOM WITH HIS WIFE AND HIS UNBORN CHILD WHO WAS KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCKING ON FELICITY'S... door.  
  
Oh god.  
  
Why wasn't he passing out already? Why was he still conscious for the horror that was natural childbirth? No man should see this. No son should ever be that close to his mother's baby-making parts... even if he'd never be able to remember his own delivery. No Roy Harper should ever hear the term mucous plug... let alone know what it is. (And that Felicity's hadn't passed until that morning... _before_ she went into work – to which Roy drove her.)  
  
How was this his life?  
  
Shaking away his thoughts – of which they were far, far too many (and none of which could he ever say out loud to Felicity), Roy tried to plaster a sympathetic expression upon his face when he finally answered her question. “Because I'm your friend. We're family. And I'll gladly be by your side until Oliver can get here.”  
  
If he ever freaking did!  
  
“That's sweet, Roy,” Felicity praised him. Or, at least, Roy thought she was praising him. For a moment, she had to pause in order to bear down, growl – she _literally_ growled, and push. (Just when exactly did _that_ start?) Once the contraction had subsided enough for Felicity to breathe again, for the doctor (Yep, Roy missed her arrival, too. Whoops.) to murmur soothing words of encouragement and praise, Felicity turned to him and finished her thought. “But it's utter bullshit.” Somewhere, a nurse chuckled, and it sounded like his death knell. “We're here because of you, Roy.”  
  
“Don't say that,” he hissed at her, glancing around nervously. Because... what the hell? All these women, all these gossips.... (Hey, he had a sensitive side; he'd seen _Grey's Anatomy_... well, enough to know that this was _not_ something he needed being discussed in the on-call room.) Another contraction, another push, and another apocalyptic sound from between Felicity's lips later, and he added, “don't even think it.”  
  
But Felicity ignored him. She ignored him, and she kept on talking, and some day, when a distant ancestor wanted to look up his information, they'd find Felicity Smoak-Queen's signature on his death certificate. “We're here because of you, because of your stupid _Hero Games_ , because it's your fault that I'm even pregnant!”  
  
“Oh god, I'm going to be sick,” Roy muttered to himself. Because nobody cared about him. “I'm going to throw up. I need a garbage can. Or a bucket. Or one of those bean shaped bowls. Is it hot in here? It feels really hot in here. And I can't breathe. I think I might fall over. Is the floor moving?”  
  
He would have kept talking, because, in a weird way, his whining (and, yes, he could admit that he was whining, because he wasn't the one squeezing an eight pound bowling ball out of a ten centimeter... place that shall not be named, so any other discomfort or complaint was irrelevant) was helping to ground him. The more he accepted his own fate now, the less scary Oliver would be when he had to face him later. Because, while Roy was dying a slow death at Felicity's side, Thea was doing everything she possibly could to track Oliver down and get him home and to the hospital. And, when Oliver learned that he missed the birth of his daughter (because was there any doubt that Oliver and Felicity would have anything but a girl?), that Roy was there instead, and that Felicity had inadvertently (probably on purpose, the vindictive, too intelligent for Roy's own good woman) made it sound like Roy was the father, bum knee and second-string or not, Roy was donezo, gonezo.  
  
With that scary thought, the pressure on the numb weight at the end of Roy's arms relented, and a blood-curdling scream ripped through the heavy, thick, sweltering air. “Oh, thank god,” Roy praised, collapsing onto the ground and cradling the pulverized sausages that used to be his fingers tenderly against his midsection.  
  
“Do you have a name, Mom?”  
  
Avianna had looked like a bird, and Katerina and Amalia hadn't looked much better – their heads all pointy and lumpy at first, but this squalling, hysterical thing that Felicity was calling 'beautiful', and 'precious,' and 'sweetie-pie' (why did she have to ruin pie for Roy, too; _why_?) looked like something straight out of his nightmares. It was slimy. And it had all this white stuff all over it... like pus. (That BETTER be pus.) And was that blood? Oh, god. Roy was pretty sure that was blood. Felicity's blood. From her....  
  
Just as his eyes were about to roll up into the back of his head, he heard Felicity tell the nurse, “Harper. Harper Rory Queen.”  
  
“What,” he screamed in panic, in fright. And, yeah, Roy wasn't afraid to admit that he screamed. Actually, it was more liked shrieked, because, while he understood that this was Felicity paying him back for tricking Oliver into knocking her up _again_ , this was just taking things _way too_ far. Scrambling to his feet, he held his hands up in both surrender and supplication. “No! No, no, no, no, no! You can't; you _can't_ do this to me! Oliver will kill me. And he'll feed you another of his magical watermelon seeds, and then we'll be here again in like... fifteen to twenty-one months. Okay, well, hopefully, _I_ won't be here again, because I swear, Felicity, I'll let you take the bus to the hospital if you ever pull something like this on me again, but you'll be here, and trust me when I say that the idea of five Queen children in eight years is pretty much the equivalent of another terrorist attack upon Starling City.”  
  
Like before, like always, Felicity ignored him. “Oh, good. You're back.” She handed the kid whose name _had_ to be changed back to a nurse to hopefully get switched in the nursery with someone's better looking child (hey, if he was going to die so that Felicity could name her kid after him, he at least wanted the brat to be pretty) and made grabby hands towards him. “I still need to deliver the afterbirth, and that always hurts worse than the actual labor.”  
  
With a whimper, Roy gave Felicity his hands.  
  
As the doctor stared to press down and massage against Felicity's lower abdomen... from which general direction Roy very quickly looked away (why his eyes were down... there... in the first place, he'd _never_ know), Felicity herself sucked in a pained breath before asking him, “you know what my middle name is, don't you, Roy?”  
  
“Yeah,” he played along with her. Because why the hell not? Maybe it'd distract him from the idea of afterbirth. So gross. “It's Codebreaker.”  
  
“Actually, it's Payback.”  
  
For a minute, Roy let that sink in, because payback was a bitch, and, after the stunt Felicity had pulled with her daughter's name? Yeah. Okay. That fit.  
  
But then Felicity was squeezing down on his hands once again, and Roy was crying out in pain... which he was pretty sure she laughed about. And, sure as shit, he hated Oliver. Like with a passion. Because, no matter what Felicity said, this was all her husband's fault. All of it. Because Roy wouldn't have gotten her pregnant.... No, wait! He didn't mean that... like _that_. He wouldn't have baited Oliver into getting her pregnant if Oliver didn't have so many god damned quirks.  
  
Stupid science experiment.  
  
Stupid Oliver and his stupid, supersonic sperm.  
  
Stupid Felicity and her stupid fertility.  
  
And stupid Roy for loving the stupid bastards.  
  
He really needed some new friends.

 


End file.
